


Mine

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Series: The New World [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Domesticity, Happy Birthday, M/M, about as close to fluff as I will ever get, happy holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8835247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: Ezra loses something irreplaceable.A 'New World' short story.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreenLeaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenLeaves/gifts).



> I know I said I probably wouldn't come back to this world, but it's someone's birthday, and it's the holidays, and Black Sails fans are the best readers in the world, so I give you this little bubble of a story, set in Amsterdam, January 1722. It is probably the shortest, lightest thing I will ever write, so if that is your jam, I hope that you enjoy.  
> Happy Birthday, GreenLeaves! Happy Holidays, all!

            The sound of barking draws him upwards, but for a moment, Ezra just sits down on the stairs, and rests his head against the wall. He closes his eyes, and drifts away.

            Another long day. He is used to hard work, and would never shirk from it. He is not accustomed to this place is all. So many years spent in the relative quiet of the Edge. The years prior spent on ships. In those places, people knew his hours. There were only so many to treat. A good quarter of his day would be taken up just chatting with the villagers.

            Not so here. From the moment he unlocks the front door in the morning to when he shuts it at night, usually against someone saying, “I’ll be but a minute!” he does not stop. He had thought he would find some success in Amsterdam—a good apothecary, which he is, will always find work—but he had not imagined what was really needed. A dentist.

            That is not to say he does not attend to other needs. Given where he has set up shop, he sees his share of interesting wounds and diseases. His skills in that area, admittedly, were wasted in New Dudley. However, well over half of his clientele are men with tooth complaints. Men who have gone half a lifetime without seeking aid for their ailments. Men who have let teeth actually rot out of their head. Men who by all rights should be dead from infection.

            And they wind up on his doorstep.

            “Thanks, James,” Ezra mutters.

            Clapping his hands on his thighs, he pushes himself to his feet. The stairway is dark, but after three months he would know the way blindfolded.

            Black Shuck is making an awful fuss behind that door. “I’m coming,” Ezra yawns. He tucks his hair back from where it has fallen forward. James’ preference or not, he is tempted to shave his head. If the man finds issue with it, Ezra will have a few words for him, and not a one will be in English. Opening the door, Ezra is suddenly barrelled into by nearly a hundred pounds of desperate canine, scrambling for the staircase. Barely catching himself on the wall, Ezra looks down into the dark with consternation. “I warned you at lunch, did I not?”

            He leaves the door to the upstairs quarters open, following Black Shuck’s whimpering. Stubborn old thing. His sister would have been far easier to handle in this weather. The thought tugs at Ezra. It is his first winter without Cu Sith.

            Like all regrets, he neatly sets it aside.

            “All right, you silly, stubborn thing,” Ezra says as Black Shuck dances around his legs. He pushes the dog aside so that he can open the back door.

            A blast of cold air strikes him. Just like that, Shuck stops where he is. He sits on his rear end, and begins to scoot backwards.

            Holding the door, Ezra slips into the tongue of the hard men of his youth. “He’p me Christ, ya fuckin’ t’ing—“

            With an almost put-upon sigh, the dog shuffles outdoors into the snow. Ezra leans against the doorway, looking out onto the night.

            It is dark and overcast, but there are still plenty of people around. Friday evening, this close to the water. James should be home soon enough, but he might be held back. Some of the men dragging him off to the tavern. Ezra wraps his arms around himself, not bothering to put on his jacket. Shuck is usually fast enough in the cold.

            Usually. Black Shuck has planted himself on the cobblestone outside of the small two story building, pitifully whining at the temperature. Ezra looks down at him, chilled himself. And he is not half wolf.

            Abruptly, he loses his patience. In Hebrew, he snaps, “Would you bloody _go_?!”

            Shuck barks, then tears away from him.

            Ezra is satisfied—for a moment. Then he feels like a monster.

            _Which I am. Doesn’t mean I should yell at the dog._

            Just to punish himself, he steps out into the night. It is not terrible for January. He has known worse, both in England and New Hampshire. Still, the wind bites through his shirt, and rushes through his hair. He tightens his hold on himself.

            Black Shuck will not go far. He never does. The longest he has ever gone down the street is a block or two, then he turns tail and runs right back. He is unused to living in the city. Sometimes Ezra would take him ashore when they docked in India or Africa, but this is Shuck’s first experience with cold stone ground. He hates it. And he hates being far from Ezra.

            Ezra sticks his hands under his armpits, exhaling frost. He glances around, and sees someone going to the front of the building. He ducks back against the wall, then shakes his head at himself.

            _You can set yourself shorter hours._

            He has already. He used to be open six days a week. Now the shop is open five, so that he can refill his herbs and solutions on the sixth. On the seventh day, he oftentimes finds himself so tired that it is a difficulty to leave the house. There have been days when he wakes from a sharp prod to the ribs, James standing over him, giving him that damned eyebrow, and saying, “Last resort is ice water, and I doubt you want that.” The day that James douses him in ice water will be the day he earns himself a spectacular new scar.

            Amsterdam is not awful. Of course not. He loves Amsterdam. When he can get beyond the confines of this place, he loves what he sees. The first time he saw other Jews, he went home that night, waited until James was asleep, then went outside and wept for relief. The food is amazing, and the constant changing terrain of people is stunning, And the bookstores—thank the Lord for bookstores. This city is teeming with information and people and things are always new. After three months, he knows that this is a place it would take a lifetime to discover, and still not find it all.

            Right now, however, while they get established, they are here. Near the waterfront. It was what James found days after they landed. A little two story with space for a shop below. The rent was cheap, and Ezra was eager to work again. He needed purpose.

            He set up shop, and James found work in under a week, sailing up and down the canals. He is never gone for more than a day or two, and so far Ezra has managed to tamp down his fears that James will simply give in and go back to sea. That is another concern he has put aside, to be examined if and when it becomes unavoidable. They have begun building a home together, still working out the particulars. It is a difficult thing, making a life with someone else, and not a task he meant to attempt again.

            Meanwhile, James saw fit to mention to someone complaining of tooth pain that he knew a man capable of rectifying the problem for a decent fee. The mouth in question was an utter horror, but Ezra did his job and sent the man on his way, thinking nothing of it.

            Sailors are not known for keeping secrets. One told the other, and that one told another, and James kept recommending him to the people he met— _which is kind_ , Ezra tries to remind himself—and all of a sudden he has found himself a sailor’s dentist.

            He is adaptable. It is one of his greatest strengths. But this last half year—things have changed so greatly. Even he feels as though he might be wobbling on his axis.

            Enough. It is Friday, the end of the work week.

            _And my birthday_ , he thinks.

            Not that it really matters. Ezra is not one for holidays. Admittedly, he lit the menorah this year, and that was a joy, but beyond that, he cares little for such things. He used to celebrate his birthday—or rather Henry would insist upon it—but the day carries memories as a result. Right now, when he is bone tired and ready to sleep instead of even thinking about preparing dinner, he does not want to recall the past at all. The present is more than enough, thank you.

            Ezra steps away from the doorway, shivering, and walks out to the street. “Shuck!” he calls. Rubbing his sides, he looks for the dog. He can sometimes be difficult to locate in the dark, even with the lamp light. He tries again. “Black Shuck! Come home, now!”

            Sticking index and pinkie fingers into his mouth, Ezra lets out a piercing whistle that echoes down the street, drawing the attention of by passers. He ignores them, straining his head to try and find his dog.

            His relaxes as he sees Shuck come galloping across the cobblestones, tongue hanging out. Ezra smiles a little at the sight of him. Faithful. Ever faithful.

            He crouches down to meet Black Shuck, opening up his arms. The dog almost knocks him over, but Ezra manages (barely) to stay on the balls of his feet. Hugging Shuck around the neck, Ezra murmurs, “Sorry, darling. I’m of an awful mood tonight.” He kisses the top of Black Shuck’s head, pushing himself up. “Not your fault.”

            He strokes absently at the dog’s neck as he turns, and a sliver of cold comes with his fingers.

            Ezra looks down, not understanding, but a split second later he does. The chain has come off and is in his hand.

            His heart seizes. He lifts the chain up entirely, looking at it with wide eyed distress. It has snapped. Shuck must have caught it on something and it broke—oh God, it has broken, and the rings—his rings—

            They are gone.

            Holding the broken chain, Ezra stands a moment, numb. Then instinct takes over.

            He drops to his knees, checking the ground around them. He reaches out into the brown, slushy snow, his pants almost instantly soaking through. Frantic, Ezra’s fingers search the ground, the stones pressed into sand, eyes seeking for the matte, battered silver of his precious rings.

            It is a fool’s errand. He knows it.

            Ezra stops, trembling. They are just things. That is what he told himself. It is the truth. Just because a thing is gone does not mean the memory no longer exists. Memories are more important than things.

            It does not fucking feel like that right now.

            Black Shuck noses at his arm. Ezra is on all fours in the middle of the street, in the snow, and he realizes he looks like a madman. Perhaps he is one.

            He swallows, then sits back on his haunches. Shuck pushes his way up beneath his arm, and Ezra wraps his arms around him. “I’ve been terribly careless, haven’t I,” he says, looking Black Shuck in the face. The dog pants, and Ezra nods. “Terribly careless. Yes I have. Yes I have.”

            He stands up, and Shuck scampers in front of him towards the house. Ezra realizes how cold he is, and wet. Flicking slush off his hands, he follows the dog, head bowed.

 

Once he is in dry clothes, Ezra sits on the edge of the bed. He sits with his hands between his knees, a bit hunched.

            The day Henry gave him that ring, he thought that he was the luckiest man to ever live. A deviant, a pirate, a heathen. By anyone else’s gaze, he had been cursed by almighty God. But still, he had found love. Henry loved him, and Henry was willing to do anything for him. Fuck the laws of man. Fuck even the laws of heaven itself.

            “God makes no mistakes,” Henry would whisper in Ezra’s ear, and Ezra would curl against his large body, smiling at his naiveté, but also at his faith. He was the safest place to be.

            Wearing his ring had been such a privilege. It had made Ezra so _happy_. He was not a man who expected happiness from life. He had not been taught to expect it, and his experiences had reinforced that life would not give joy willingly. To put that ring on, it had been a repudiation of all else. They would seize happiness. They would steal it. And they had. For a time.

            That ring was the last thing Ezra had of Henry’s. Of course, some of the books had been Henry’s, and Black Shuck had been Henry’s as much as Ezra’s. But the ring had been on Henry’s body every day until he died. Ezra had climbed Henry’s gibbet to get the ring off his corpse. That was how much it had meant to him.

            Now it is gone. Somewhere in the snow. He could search through the dark, but it would be an exercise in futility.

            _I should have put them somewhere safe_.

            Yes, he bloody well should have. Putting them around Black Shuck’s neck had been an act of sentimentality. Ezra is not sentimental. Or not for the most part. This, though—he acted unwisely. He should have put them in a box. He told himself they were just things, but that was a lie. The rings were a piece of Henry. A piece of Ezra as well.

            He had taken them off because he had been ready, and it seemed like the appropriate thing to do. He wanted to give himself to James, and it had not seemed—fair, he supposed, to wear them. It was saying goodbye to Henry, and respecting the start of something new with James. They would make their own memories, they would make their own things. It had been a difficult moment—an awful moment, in fact, a thing he would never admit to James—and Black Shuck had done like he usually did. When he sensed Ezra’s upset, he would burrow his way up between his master’s arms. Ezra had been about to put the rings around his own neck on a chain, but in a fit of impulse he placed it around Shuck’s.

            He had yelled at Black Shuck then, too. Put him outside. He was a man of typically low simmering temper, but some things just struck a nerve.

            And once James found them around Shuck’s neck, it had not seemed like a thing he could take back. It would have been odd to put them around his own neck, like he was moving backwards.

            Then they had to leave the village so quickly. They had to leave the _continent_ so quickly. Ezra said nothing, but he longed to put his rings back on as they fled. Not out of disrespect for James. Not because he pined for Henry. Well, he would always pine for Henry, in some small way. No, he wanted to wear his rings because they made him feel safe.

            It was a ridiculous thing to think, and from him of all people. He has killed more people than can be counted on both hands. He sailed a ship that flew the fucking red. Of all the people who deserve safety, Ezra Wake is not among their number.

            He knew that, and so he let them stay around Black Shuck’s neck. Sometimes the beast would climb up onto his lap, basically covering him, which always made James smile that way he did—half wicked, half sweet. Ezra would smile back, and with a hand hidden beneath Shuck’s fur, he would gently roll the rings over between thumb and forefinger.

            “Gone now,” he tells himself.

            Ezra raises his head, looking about their room. The bed is a touch too small, which is not a problem now, when the cold forces both of them to seek out each other’s warmth. But Ezra has a tendency to sprawl, and he has woken himself up more than once by falling off the bed. James made the table at their bedside. The walls have a few paintings, and some scrimshaw that one of James’ new friends carves.

            Ezra has not made any friends here. He does not know that he will. He is friendly with their neighbours, but he is cautious too. Everyone is kept at a distance, and he thinks that is for the best. At least for now.

            His true friends sail the seas. His true friends are braving another winter amid sugar maples.

            At the sound of the downstairs door unlocking, Ezra pushes a hand through his hair. He can put on a good face for James. He tries to, on days like this. Thankfully, there have not been many, but the rings—the rings.

            Heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then James murmuring to the dog. Ezra draws his shoulders up, preparing himself to pretend. Things do not always go as planned. Sometimes, bad things happen. The only answer is to move forward.

            James calls, “Wake?”

            To hear Henry’s name right now—Ezra inhales through his nose. “In the bedroom. I’ll be a minute.”

            His night to cook. Even though he has given them food poisoning more than once. Ezra is brilliant, and not even modestly so, at a great number of things. Cooking is not one of them. James is much better at the task, but Ezra likes to keep things equal. He suspects that if he gives James the liquid shits one more time they might no longer share the task, but until the day comes he will insist upon parity of chores.

            He expects James to leave him be, but a second later, the door is opening, and James leans into the room. He looks Ezra over, studying him with a gaze that rarely misses much. Ezra is an old hand at concealment, however, and he puts on an exhausted smile. Really, he would rather drop to the mattress, heartsick, no matter how ridiculous the impulse.

            “Did they keep you busy?” James asks. He has not even taken off his coat yet, though blessedly he is in his stocking feet. If Ezra has to remind him about tracking mud across the floor one more time, he will be obliged to tie James to the bed. Again.

            “I apologize, I just need a moment to sit. My fingers were in a truly staggering number of mouths.” He lifts a hand, showing off a new scrape.

            He smiles faintly when James puts a hand to the side of his head, bending down to kiss his hair. “Rest your weary bones,” James murmurs, and the chill of him is welcome. The distraction of him is welcome.

            Ezra watches as James pulls his satchel over his head, resting it on the bed. He sniffs at the air. Something smells wonderful, and it is coming from the kitchen. “What is that?”

            Slipping out of his jacket, James says, “I bought some of those fritters that you were so fond of. They may be a bit cold by the time we get to them, but—well, frankly, I’d prefer cold to your cooking.”

            “I take offense,” Ezra replies, though not very strongly.

            James tosses the jacket to the end of the bed, then sits down beside Ezra. Their legs press together. Ezra pushes away a shiver. James has brought the outdoors with him, his hands red. James is still looking at him with a strange little half smile, and Ezra does not know why. He gazes back. James’ hair is long enough to curl slightly. Christ, he is a terribly handsome man. Tired or not, Ezra knows what he wants to do tonight.

            “How is my merchant sailor?” Ezra inquires.

            James grins, baring his teeth, then says, “Do you honestly think I’ve forgotten?”

            “Forgotten what?” Ezra realizes what he means, then rolls his eyes. “Oh—you know I don’t care about—“

            Turning, James says, “Be that as it may—“ He picks up his satchel, and withdraws a large, leather-bound book. The pages are an untouched, creamy white. James sets the book in Ezra’s lap, leaning back on his hands. “You can demur all you please about not wanting to celebrate holidays, but I know how you feel about presents.”

            “It’s not just that you buy me things—“

            James jostles him, hard. “You think I don’t know that? Go on. Tell me if you like it.”

            Ezra opens the journal. It is a beauty, make no mistake. As large as the one he has used these many years, which is swiftly running out of pages. It will be perhaps two months before he will need to switch, but he has tried not to think about it. The old journal—it contains the story of his entire life. His family. Henry. James—everything with James, as it happened. Meeting him, loathing him, befriending him, struggling not to fall for him, and failing, failing utterly.

            This journal is so empty. How will he fill it? Will there be anything to fill it with? Or will he simply be so tired at the end of the day from poking about at men’s teeth that he cannot find the energy to even report on life’s banalities?

            He realizes he has waited too long to reply. “It’s lovely, James. Thank you.”

            But James is watching him closely. “You don’t like it.”

            “Of course I do.” Ezra smiles slightly. “Of course you would find it in black. I think that’s a shade we entirely need to steer away from.” He tugs at James’ breeches, teasing.

            The pensive expression James wears has not lessened. Ezra gets a terrible feeling. _Not tonight, please don’t, whatever it is, not tonight. Any other night, just not tonight_. “Well,” James says. “If that didn’t meet your fancy.” Ezra is protesting, because it truly is a gorgeous journal, and he is grateful for it. Only, he just wants to press his face against the pillows and sob for the loss of his rings. That is certainly not a thing he could tell James, and for pity’s sake, he is a grown man. In two years’ time, he will be forty. James surprises him, though, by reaching into his bag and taking out something else. “Perhaps that will be more to your liking.”

            He holds it up for Ezra to see. After a moment, Ezra begins to beam. He reaches out, taking the metal tube. The outside has been inscribed in Hebrew. A mezuzah. He considered putting one up when they came here, but it was already risky enough, two men living in the same small home. This was a city where people would recognize an outright Jewish symbol. The two things on their own might raise eyebrows, but put the two together, and it was a recipe for disaster. He decided to err on the side of caution. He is not ashamed of who he is—better to be a bold Jewish sodomite than a liar—but after their hasty retreat from the colonies, he finds himself considering the effect of each action he takes, no matter how miniscule.

            “James,” Ezra says, for want of anything else. He turns it over, peeking into the case. He can see the prayer inside. He recites, “Hear, O Israel….”

            The last house he had a mezuzah in was on the island.

            Ezra falters, for just a second, but once more, he brushes his woes aside. As always, James is an incredibly thoughtful gift giver. “I love it. Where did you get it?”

            Shrugging, James says, “Where the—synagogue is?”

            He mangles the word lightly, but Ezra does not bother to correct him. He thinks of James walking into the Jewish quarter, likely with no idea what he was looking for, and Ezra adores him all the more.

            For a moment, James tilts his head. His eyes rake over Ezra’s face. This time, Ezra has no idea what the cause is. “Why do I get the impression you were wanting for something else?”

            “James!” Ezra says with a laugh. “What else could I possibly want for?” He lifts the journal. “A lovely new book to write in—a prayer for our door—a red head with a cock the length of—“

            “No,” James says thoughtfully. “You were hoping for something else.”

            A game. He is playing a game of some kind. A little embarrassed that it took him this long to comprehend that, Ezra sits still and plays along. “What was I hoping for, old man?” he asks with a smirk.

            Reaching into his pocket, James withdraws something. He holds his palm out in front of Ezra’s face. “These.”

            For the second time in an hour, Ezra’s heart loses its rhythm.

            James is holding his rings. Not just any rings, but _his_ rings. He can see the dent in Henry’s, the familiar little nicks in his own. Somehow—somehow James has—

            Ezra is so overwhelmed that he cannot think. He cannot even speak. What he wants is to lunge forward and grab his rings and put them on his hands where he will never lose them again. No. No, that is not a thing he can do. Those rings, they are a symbol of another time. He is with James now. He is glad for that, he is so fucking thankful for that. He will not show ingratitude for this man by disrespecting him.

            “Where did you find them?” Ezra asks, because he does not know what else he can say. His voice is hoarse, but he has no clue what to do about that.

            James is gazing at him kindly. He obviously does not know what is going through Ezra’s head, or he would not have that look in his eyes. “That crook down the street,” he says, jerking a nod back over his shoulder. “Tried to sell them to me as I was coming home. When I saw them, I—well—“ Closing his hand, he turns it over somewhat sheepishly. Ezra sees now that his hand is not only red from the cold, but his knuckles are bruising. His poor heart swells, and he does not know how much more excitement the organ can take. “After I hit him, he told me he saw a dog get caught on a cart, and when the animal yanked itself free, the rings fell at his feet. Hell of a coincidence I got to him first, wouldn’t you say?”

            God is not a thing Ezra believes in, but at this moment, he would get on hand and knee and recite the entire Torah in thanks. “Indeed.”

            James’ mouth twitches, then he says, “Come here.”

            “What—“ But James is reaching for his hand. When Ezra realizes what he means to do, he pulls back. Part of him is horrified. “No, James—“

            But James has his right hand, and he says with some amusement, “Mrs. Wake.” He arches a brow, in that way he does, and puts Henry’s ring on Ezra’s thumb. Ezra stares at him as James squeezes his hand. “Do you think I don’t know? It took me a long time to get to know you—to look past my bloody pride and figure you out—but now that I have, you will find it very difficult to get anything by me.” He reaches for Ezra’s left hand, and slips the other ring into place. It has been nearly eight months, and finally Ezra’s hands feel like his own again. James shakes his head once. “I told you, it would not bother me if you wore them always.”

            He is so glad to wear his rings again. At the same time, he is ashamed. James has been so very good to him. To put the rings back on—it feels disloyal.

            Preparing himself, knowing that he will take them off again if he must, Ezra says, “James—what matters is not what was, what matters is that you know—“

            “Don’t be an idiot. Of course the past matters.” James lets out a good natured sigh, then says, “Ezra—you were his. Now you’re mine. No shame in being both.”

            It is as if spring has come and all his worries simply melt into the ground. Present, but below the surface, where they cannot trouble him. He is struck by a rush of indescribable affection for this man. How is that he has found this, again? He, who is so undeserving?

            James takes his silence for Ezra being unconvinced, so he continues to speak. “Wake, you know, to me you are—you’re the first person I’ve ever made a home with. Fuck, I’d get your name tattooed across my back if I thought you wouldn’t rant at me about infection. I understand what you’ve given up, that things are difficult now, but they’ll be better soon enough, I’ll make sure of it—“

            Ezra silences him by putting a hand to his face. Ezra looks at the ring on his finger, at how his thumb brushes the scar on James’ cheek. What can he possibly say?

            He says the only thing he can. “I love you.”

            That startles James. His head turns a little under Ezra’s hand. He does not seem upset by the words, only curious. “What about promises?” There is a touch of amusement in his voice.

            Drawing a deep breath, Ezra mutters, “Fuck promises.”

            He pushes himself onto James’ lap, so sudden and fierce that James falls onto his back with a surprised grunt. The journal and mezuzah drop to the floor as Ezra kisses James, tasting the cold winter’s night, and everything else slips away as James pulls him down close. Nothing matters, not presents, not birthdays, not rings, just that it is him and he loves and is loved. He belongs to this man, and every day is a blank page that he can write those words upon.  


End file.
